


Step 1: Accidentally acquire a feral child (but definitely not to keep)

by RequiemForAMeme



Series: Philza Minecraft’s Guide to NOT becoming a father [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Child does not want man either., Gen, Human Trafficking, I ignore canon because what even is canon, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Its heavily implied, Man acquires child, Man does not want child., Moral Ambiguity, Neither of them get a choice in the matter., Phil Watson Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Phil galivants around for several chapters making a nuisance of himself then suddenly: parenthood, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Sleepy Bois Inc-centric, Technoblade Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), This is not as fluffy as a lot of “Phil rescues Techno” fics. Fair warning., Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), neither of them want one but its about NEEDS not WANTS, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29775924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RequiemForAMeme/pseuds/RequiemForAMeme
Summary: Some have family born to them, some achieve family, and some have family thrust upon them, but to Phil it would always just be a choice he refused to make. What he was yet to realise though, was that there was also the type of family that are reluctantly forced together because fate has decided to drag you kicking and screaming into a fatherhood you would much rather avoid.In which Phil just came for a burger, but somehowpurchasesrescues a feral hybrid child instead.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Philza Minecraft’s Guide to NOT becoming a father [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188473
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Step 1: Accidentally acquire a feral child (but definitely not to keep)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story in a series I have planned, because the only thing better than found family is family that don't even WANT to become a family but eventually become one anyway.

Many years later, as he stands in the ruins of a city destroyed by one son while his hands drip with the blood of another, Phil would think only of that distant night he spent trying to fish for the moon.

He had always found it strange, the things you remember. Which memories stayed true and unblemished against the test of time, and which drifted hazy and distant into the recesses of the mind. Within his past, now shelved haphazardly into the storage spaces of his memory, lay the stuff of legends. He had been a hero, a villain and a mentor depending on which Ballard they were telling (and who was telling it). He had dealt blows that had toppled kingdoms, helped others rise in their place. He had been a witness (and the cause) of some of the most horrific, honorific and pivotal moments in history. Yet in his mind many of those had begun to slip and slide together, details crossing and timestreams weaving into a whimsical tapestry he fondly labelled his past.

Even that famous day he had slayed the legendary Ender Dragon had begun to crumble and degrade into flashes of still images and the aftermath of pulsing emotion. Fear, triumph… regret. People still come up to him to tell him they remember the moment they first heard of its defeat with such clarity they can tell him the colour of their socks and the taste of their last meal in their mouth. That they would never forget the moment they heard the news. Yet, to Phil himself, the memory growing fainter with each passing day as the truth slowly becomes nearly inescapable from the stories told back to him, like an embarrassing relative routinelly bringing up the folly of youth.

Surely those would be the memories his mind would latch to as his world both literally and figuratively crumbles around him. Yet one cannot control the mind as much as they might think they do, and so he spares no thought to past battles. Does not stop to wonder how to proceed to the future. Spares not even a change of thought to the sons he was unable to protect.

Instead, his mind likens the screams of a wither to the chirp of a cricket on a still night, the blurry image of the sun seen through a smoky sky becomes the reflection of a full moon on the water.

He does not scream, he does not cry, he does not worry (he does not mourn). Instead, he simply thinks of fish as he begins to remise.

* * *

He was a different man then, far older than he looked but younger than he thought himself to be. He thought himself as wise and aged as one could be by the wars and great feats of his past. By this point he had been alone for near to a year, enjoying the simplicity of survival where one did not need the burden of morality, to know what was right and wrong. Out here he was a simply another man, without expectation and without history, whose life was condensed simply to the question of if he would survive to watch the sun rise once more. Despite being with all the savageness and moral ambiguity of a well-honed weapon, he had still been naïve enough to think fate would let him slip into blissful obscurity, living out the rest of this days alone in the wilds of the world. He had no desire for company, knew himself to be too savage and battle-hardened to be suited for the more tradition form of retirement.

He had thought loneliness to be such a noble achievement. Staunchly refusing to entertain even the briefest of thought to creating a family and building a _home,_ not just a house. To him, family was a choice, a choice he refused to make. Blood relations doesn’t always result in family, nor did one have to adopt the pitiful orphan. Some have family born to them, some achieve family, some have family thrust upon them, but ultimately still your choice. What he had not realised was there was also the family that was forced together through circumstance, as fate decides to drag you kicking and screaming into a fatherhood you would much rather avoid.

It was a choice he would never have made consciously.

Perhaps though, it had still been a choice in a way. Though he had not chosen fatherhood, he had chosen to set his foot on the path that led to it (though he had not foreseen the final outcomes) that night so long ago. Had let himself fall into the deep poetics or trying to catch a moon that would never be caught, when he let himself be lonely. That night had been a choice, and though he has many, many regrets he does not think that is one of them.

As all nights do, it had been proceeded by day, the memory of which had long since faded it was a dull and hurried blur of memory that accompanied many his survival days. An overall inconsequential other than the fact that something about it had driven him, a desire to find some rare item or perhaps simply boredom, deep into the meandering trails of an old mineshaft he had stumbled across in his travels, letting the whim of the tracks direct him as they pleased. 

A mineshaft that would prove to be just like any other (perhaps even less fortuitous than usual). Yet his memories switch to abrupt crispness when it comes to that moment, when he pushed his way free from its endless tunnels and emerged from the musky dampness to find the sun already setting and himself so very, very far from home.

It was always a disorientating feeling returning to the world when one had spent so much time underground. Like life had been paused still until that moment you return to the surface once more, when it rushes all at once to make up for lost time. He remembers the way his head had spun and the shadowy presence of the great jungle that pressed down on him, its heady scent broken slightly the certain crispness to the air that told him a large body of freshwater lay nearby.

He thinks of the dusty fingerprints he had left on the foliage as he pushed his way through the thick understory, chasing the fleeing tendrils of daylight. At last he broke free of the rainforest’s border to find himself of the high banks of a river that neatly cut the jungle from the grassy plains that lay on the other side.

He had stood at that bank, watching the sun slump lower and lower beyond the horizon, and felt himself overwhelmed with such overwhelming smallness that it brought him to his knees, landing with a squelch on the muddy riverbank. He remembers the chill on the mud seeping through his trousers, how he had focused of the feeling of it like it would distract him from the way he simply seemed to _ache._

He ached from hours upon hours of clambering through too small mine-shafts, from fighting through thick spiderwebs and wrestling with the monsters that inhabited them. He ached from the knowledge that after a long, hard day he had nothing to look forward to but a longer, harder night of travel to get back to base. He had given so much of his time to his latest survival project and what did he truly have to show for it? He had _wanted_ this, wanted to retire from war and legend, but was this what his future truly was to be? He wanted to scream, let his voice echo across that golden plain, let it carry and carry and carry so that all the creatures that lived there may hear him. He _ached_ because it became abundantly clear that no one was there to hear him.

In the open space of the world, he felt far more claustrophobic than he ever had in that mineshaft. There was a predatory stillness to that night that stalked closer and closer, circling around the curious little man that dared to wander alone within it. He shivered, unable to truly rid himself of the sensation of spiderwebs slipping over skin as the shadows curled over him. He did not want to travel into that good night.

So, with his knees soaked and hands covered in mud, he simply decided he wouldn’t.

He scrambled to his knees, wiping muddy hands somewhat redundantly on his trousers as he turned back to assess the jungle. He eyes one of the great trees that perched of the riverbanks edge, before sprinting towards it and leaping onto its lowest branch. His wings, still too cramped from hours in the mine to be of much help, beat lightly behind him to help his balance as he used the vines to clamber the higher and higher. He eventually settled comfortably onto one a thick branch overhanging the gently winding water and high above the reach of any mobs that may get lucky enough the sneak up on him.

He shrugged off his cloak, the night humid enough that he would not need it, laying it over the foliage. He unslung his bow and rested it beside him alongside a few arrows, close enough that he could easily take down any mobs that ventured in range. With a slight sigh pulled forth a slightly stale loaf of bread that would have to do for dinner, wishing he had not been so optimistic that he would have luck finding food to be found in the mine. Lastly, he gently removed a well-worn fishing rod, lovingly cared for and glistening slightly with the tell-tale purple shimmer of enchantments. He cast the line back, before flinging it over the branch’s edge with a practised flick of his wrist, watching it fall into the water below as he settled into a sleepless night of fishing.

He had always thought fishing to be one of the most pleasant luxuries in life. He had never been one for meditation (sitting cross legged on the floor for hours when one has giant wings was more torturous than calming) but he believed fishing was as close as he would get. It stilled the mind from the racing thoughts of what needed to get done, what his next project would be, and let him simply ponder the simpler things in life.

He had allowed him to be struck by the wondrous stillness of the moment. His whole life was about movement. Hunting, running, chasing and fighting. Even in his recent retirement each new day was a new challenge and a new race to complete his ever-expanding task list. 

He was alone, had been alone for a long time and had never really minded it, but oh it had ached something beautiful on that night. Staring all night across the vastness of the plains, even as the heavy gaze jungle’s thousand gleaming eyes that loomed behind him. A thousand glittering stars to witness a man alone in the universe.

The fish weren’t biting, and the mobs suspiciously absent other than the faint groan or rattle of bones. Close enough to keep him from dozing, but far enough away that he could not hit them with the bow resting by his side. Instead, he found his face staring into the arch of the full moon staring up at him from where it had slid its way onto the water’s surface.

He felt both incredibly out of place and incredibly inadequate in its presence, suddenly very conscious of the way his hair clumped with sweat and spider blood. A familiar desire rippled through him. A desire to _conquer,_ to _prove himself,_ a need to hold that orb in his grasp. He wanted to feel the texture of its surface, cover its glow with his palms until the only light of the night bled between the gaps in his finger. He wanted to capture it… He wanted her company, and he didn’t want her to leave.

He casts the line again, this time not bothering with the misplaced ripples that would signify fish. Instead, he throws it directly in the centre of the moon’s reflection, somehow still surprised when there’s no texture of resistance and his rod hits silky water instead. The mirage flickers slightly with the splash, like a glitch timed perfectly to allow for escape.

Perhaps he was more exhausted than he thought, but he wound the rod up before casting it again and again and again. To no avail. Logically he knew it would not work, yet he finds himself trying. Like this time will finally be the time it works.

It doesn’t.

Was this the instinct of all creatures? Like the cat who runs after the dancing gleam off a shard of glass, was he just another predator doomed to this endless chase, to try hunt and capture even what they can never hope to hold. He has nothing left to do but think as he as he repeatedly casted his rod into the golden target of the moon as its reflection slowly swam its way across the river. Tries again and again to stop her movement, until at last the moon crosses to the other bank and escapes into the thicket.

It was just him, and oh he had felt so very, very alone.

“What now?” he had thought as he stared at the slowly lightening sky. Dawn was coming, but the thought didn’t excite him.

What would have happened, if it weren’t for the aching loneliness of that night. Of a moon who taunted and remained stubbornly out of reach. How much longer would he have wrapped himself in the oblivion of isolation, unknowing of the horror that was beginning to form in the underbelly of a city far, far away. He could have instead spent the night trekking through the wildness, fighting the mobs that come across him before no doubt getting home just as dawn rose, collapsing into bed soon after, too tired for thoughts. Then he would have woken, and his farm would have kept him far too busy for loneliness. It would have been a memory that would have melded with the many night just like it, never remembered by a man on a battlefield in a long distant future. Perhaps all would have gone to plan, and he would have remained blissfully lonely for the rest of his days, and that man would never have existed in the first place.

But that is not what happened, and so the man who tried to fish for the moon sighs, watching a sunrise that was still just as beautiful but no longer noteworthy. He packs his bags and aches with bone deep tiredness for what the future must hold.

Perhaps, he decides, it’s high time he checked back in with society once more. Afterall, he would _murder_ for a decent fish and chips. 

* * *

That same night, a thousand worlds away, the moon finds another in which to cement herself into memory, a child crying silently in the dark. He is huddled against the wall of long abandoned sewerage tunnel; the curving concrete bone dry expect for the tears of the child it shelters within. In the dark around him loom crates and boxes whose shape seems to meld in the low light, creating terrifying creatures in the child’s imagination. The illusions he conjuries easily backed by the very real snarls and groans of various terrified creatures that echo towards him from where they too have been trapped in some other part of the tunnel. The boy hugs himself close, knees hugged tightly to his chest in an attempt to scavenge as much warmth and comfort as he can before the metal chains on each of his limbs take it from him. In opposition to the stiff closeness of his limbs, his head is tilted as far back as the wall allows, so that he may stare up a rusted latter to the open grate above him. High above him, the yellow eye of the full moon stares curiously back.

“What are you?” it seems to ask him as the moon pokes him with a curious moonbeam, “why are you down there?”

The boy doesn’t answer for he does not know, instead shifting to the left so he falls once more back into the safety of the shadows. He sniffles, the mixing of his tears with the muck that covers his hands leaving dark smears across his cheeks. In the low light he looks almost innocent, like a child whose spent an afternoon frolicking in his mother’s garden, knowing the trouble he will now be in but far too giddy to worry about it in the moment.

The moon has drifted now, curiously chasing the child who tries to hide from her gaze. The moon wants the truth, and under her light he does not look so innocent anymore. The beams trace over the sharp tips of canine like tusks that jut out of his mouth, of the inhumane shape of his ears and the bright ruby of his eyes. The grime he is completely covered with now gleams with a red and rusted tinge, revealing dried blood in quantities too large to simply be his own.

“It hurts,” The child says in a snarling gruff that sounds closer to the roars of some great beast than any human language, but the moon understands him anyway.

“I know,” she replies, for it is not hard to see in the yellow spotlight of her eye how truly beaten down this young child is. His captors had not been violent for violence’s sake, but they were not kind to a boy with instincts to fight when cornered. He was littered with cuts of varying sizes, many oozing and infected from the blood and foreign dirt he had not been allowed to wash off. Bruises of all sizes and colours littered him, mixing with old rope burns he had been tied with before they realized he was strong enough to simply tear through them, and the weeping wounds on his wrists and ancles from where they had switched to metal chains. Some wounds are older still, the blackened scab from a wither skeleton’s sword that had yet to fade, a mostly healed burn from a blaze. He had lived a short life so far, but one where he had to scavenge and fight in order to survive long enough to see tomorrow, so it was not these wounds that bothered him.

No, this child’s hurts were more than just skin deep. The child aches, from the cold he has never felt and now can never seem to escape. He aches because he does not understand the world he has been brought into, because he does not understand the words of the people who brought him into it or what they are going to do with him now that they have. He aches for the simplicity of his home, where perhaps he was not loved by his people but at least he was left alone. Where he was always hungry and always hurting, but at least he was free.

It _hurts_ that he had always wanted to meet the race from which the other half of his ancestry came from. An ancestry that had made him an outcast even to his own people. It hurts because he had wanted nothing more than to find **his** _people_ and a place where he could finally belong, but now that he has met mankind, he wants nothing to be alone once more. He aches because he does not understand the orb staring down at him from above, but he wishes he could follow wherever it leads to. Anywhere, as long as it is not here. 

Yet time will always march steadily forward, and it is without so much as a parting farewell that the moon slips from view. With the strange light having disappeared ~~without helping him he should have known better,~~ the child hides himself away one more, ducking his head beneath his knees as he weeps for a future he could not possibly comprehend. 

**Author's Note:**

> Was very nervous posting this so thank you for reading! Hope it was okay. I genuinely cannot tell at this point.


End file.
